I have to take off my gown, and of course, leave it to me to wait until I'm actually in the car, and we're actually moving, before I try to.

I struggle through it, pulling it off my arms, contorting as much as possible against the seat belt.

That's when I notice Chance isn't wearing his seat belt.

"What are you, a complete idiot? Will you put your seat belt on?"

"It's not far," he says casually.

"Put it on," I say, hardening my voice. "You know how many people die because they are as stupid as you?"

"Okay, okay, no need to get your panties all twisted up," he says, pulling the seat belt over his body. "I was about to."

I sigh, and pinch the bridge of my nose. "I'm not getting anything twisted up. You're just an idiot. And don't say panties. It's juvenile."

"Ouch. What is it with you and the name calling, Ca.s.s?"

"Don't call me Ca.s.s. My name is Ca.s.sie."

"You're all so p.r.i.c.kly." He leans over to me and grins. "p.r.i.c.kly pear... are you frustrated?" His deep voice hangs in the air for a moment.

"G.o.d, just let me out of the car, okay?" I'm huffing now, and I don't even know why I agreed to this in the first place.

"Oh, just sit still, will you? We're nearly there."

"Why are you taking this road?" I ask. He's going by the beach. It's not the quickest way.

"Because I want to."

"But it's a slower route."

"Wow, Ca.s.s, you should really chill out."

"Why would you take a slower, less direct route, when there is a faster one available to you? It doesn't make sense."

"You know, stress is bad for your blood pressure."

"Like you would know anything about that."

"I'm an athlete, Ca.s.s. What makes you think I don't know about blood pressure? About cardiovascular health?"

I cross my arms and look out of the window. I don't even want to look at him, his big and strong hands holding carelessly onto the wheel, the way his t-s.h.i.+rt seems to have molded itself to the muscular contours of his body.

Oh G.o.d, what is wrong with me? Why do I want this total d.i.c.khead?

I always envisioned myself finding a sharp and successful man, one who wore suits to work, was sophisticated and smart as a whip.

Not some vain, stuck-up playboy.

I force myself to focus on the scenery outside. It's actually pretty nice. The sea is sparkling like it's been sprinkled with crystals, and surprisingly the beach is nearly completely empty. It stretches on for nearly two miles, and I can barely see anybody on it.

There's a light breeze, and I can see the lines of the catamarans on the beach flapping against their metal masts. I whirr down the window, and sure enough, I can hear the clinking sounds.

But then I hear another clink, much closer, and very familiar. I look over to Chance, and my mouth drops. "You're going to smoke in here?"

He looks at me, cigarette dangling from between his lips, zippo flame wriggling in the wind, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Yes, Ca.s.s. I am."

"Can you not?"

He shrugs, and sparks his cigarette anyway.

"You are such an inconsiderate a.s.s. Second-hand smoke causes cancer, you know."

"My car, my rules."

"Then just let me out!" I cry.

I completely don't expect him to yank the car over, brake aggressively, and then sit back in his seat, arm on the headrest of mine, and hazel eyes daring.

"Get out, then," he says, shrugging. "No skin off my back."

"Argh!" I groan, undoing the seatbelt and getting out. I slam the car door a I know that he'll hate that, because all boys do a and start walking along the beach. It's only twenty minutes to my house, and the walk won't kill me.

But sitting in that car with Chance might make me kill him.

I'm appalled when I hear a car door close and a car lock chirrup, and turn around to see that he's gotten out, and he's walking over to me with his infuriatingly c.o.c.ky swagger, and that same stupid smirk on his face.

Smoke trails in his wake, tumbles away on the arm of a breeze.

"Oh my G.o.d, you just don't know when to stop, do you?" I say, putting my hands up. I'm so annoyed. I'm exasperated. What the h.e.l.l is his game, anyway? Why is he bugging me so much today?

It's graduation. Couldn't he have just let me have it in peace?

"Why didn't your father attend the ceremony?" he asks, squinting against the sun. His eyes become slits, and it makes him more attractive.

"What business is it of yours?"

"My mother went on some company get away." He shrugs. "I don't really give a f.u.c.k. But you seem to give a f.u.c.k, so why not talk about it? Isn't that what therapists say we should do? Talk about what we give a f.u.c.k about?"

I balk. "Are you seeing a therapist?"

"Have to. Court orders."

"For what?"

"Punching some suit in the jaw. He had to have it wired. He was a douche."

Try as I might, I can't even understand why he's telling me this, or what it is even supposed to mean to me. I just sigh, and keep walking.

"So, why isn't he here?" he asks me.

"Why did you punch the guy?" I ask him back.

"He said he knew my mother. Said she f.u.c.ked her way up the company."

I stop, eyes-wide. "Really? He said that to your face?" I'm feeling nasty, and so I say, "Is it true?"

Chance's face grows hard, but his eyes still have this spark of playfulness. He likes that I said that, that I caught him off-guard.

"Even if he was right, n.o.body talks about my mother that way."

"Even if he's right?" I echo. "Nice defense of your own mom."

"Hey," he says, sucking in a huge drag of his cigarette. "I don't know her life. Besides, I can't imagine you'd have too many nice things to say about your pops considering he didn't turn up either."

"He didn't come because he was away on some work thing as well. Some kind of partner holiday. I can't imagine why the partners would want to holiday together." I shake my head. "Why would anybody spend more time with their colleagues than they had to?"

"Sounds like he's a p.r.i.c.k."

"Hey," I say, turning on him and pointing a finger in his grill. "Don't talk about my family."

"See?" he says. "You get it. That's why I hit the guy."

I blink. "Oh, why are you following me, Chance?"

He shrugs. "You want me to go, just say it, I'll go."

"Right, because, wait, let me phrase it how you would: I don't give a f.u.c.k."

"I don't."

I roll my eyes, but for some reason, I don't tell him to go. We just walk in silence for a while. His shoulder b.u.mps into mine, and I think about stepping away again, but I just can't be bothered to. I know him, the kind of boy he is. He just doesn't stop... ever.

He must think of me as some kind of conquest, or something. That would be so him. The nerdy girl. Maybe all his friends dared him.

In fact, I'm sure that's what it is. Quick, nab her while you still can!

Isn't that how all boys think? Like it's all a game?

Well, I'm certainly not going to be just some notch.

Chapter Four.

I do give a f.u.c.k.

I do care.

That's the truth of it. I care, and I care a lot.

She stole my attention the very first time I saw her at the beginning of the school year. I had to make up my credits after taking a year out to fight.

I tore through that tour. Went sixteen and nil. All wins, no losses.

But Ca.s.sie... that first time I saw her, she was sitting right at the front of cla.s.s, back rigidly erect, her mocha-brown hair neatly parted, so straight like it was ironed.

And there I was, uniform s.h.i.+rt untucked, top b.u.t.ton undone, tie loose, and a whole lot of don't-give-a-f.u.c.k in my att.i.tude.

It was a fancy school, but f.u.c.k uniforms forever.

Except on the girls. Except on Ca.s.sie. She made it look good. Everything was so neat, so proper, so tidy. Every blouse had no creases, every skirt worn to knee-length. She had her socks pulled up, and her shoes were always s.h.i.+ny.

G.o.d, to get that skirt up her thighs... to tear that blouse open... the thought of it makes me rock hard in an instant.

I don't know if it's weird that I want to take that innocence, that steadfast purity. I don't know if that makes me an a.s.shole.

All I know is that I want her. Want to taste every inch of her body, want to hold her in my hands, pin her against a wall.

Want to hear her moan my name, throw her head back against me while I drive into her from behind.

But more than that... I want to know her, what makes her tick.

She's like me and she doesn't even know it.

Driven, determined, compet.i.tive. She's all fire, all motor. Like me. Be it wrestling, or cage fighting, or even boxing, I give it my all, go right to the end.

I never half-a.s.s it.

And neither does she.

But all year Ca.s.sie barely even looked at me. I can remember it to this day. All the other girls in the cla.s.sroom did, of course. But those girls weren't my type.

Truth be told, once I met Ca.s.sie, n.o.body was my type anymore.

And that, there, is something that scares me. It's a little secret I have, but you'd never f.u.c.king know it by looking at me.

I've not been with a girl since I saw Ca.s.sie that very first day of term.

Before that, sure, it was four new girls a week, never the same one twice. Well, maybe once or twice if she was real good.